


Lieutenant

by Island_of_Reil



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Birth Control, Cunnilingus, Ear-pulling, F/M, Femdom, Formal Pronouns During Sex, Hair-pulling, Large Cock, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, Open Marriage, Scars, Scratching, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-25 20:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: He will not call her by her given name.
Relationships: Csethiro Ceredin/Maia Drazhar, Deret Beshelar/Csethiro Ceredin, background Maia/Csevet
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	Lieutenant

“Zhasan,” Lieutenant Beshelar says huskily against Csethiro’s right inner thigh.

He does not, will not, she suspects _could not_ call her by her given name even were she to command it of him. In fairness, she cannot think of him as “Deret,” either. He is Lieutenant Beshelar, whether he is standing stone-faced in full nohechareise dress behind Maia or he is kneeling naked beside the bed in this maz-warded, far-out-of-the-way chamber, holding Csethiro’s hips as if he were drinking from a chalice in an othasmeire.

She shivers and draws her knees up higher, then moans softly as he traces her inner lips with his tongue. His skill in the bedchamber startled her the first time; nothing of his normal demeanor suggests an ease or facility with carnal pleasure. But he is never crass nor blunt in giving it, always reverent and gentle.

Free of its topknot, his hair spills abundantly over his broad shoulders and their sharply defined blades. Csethiro works her fingers into it — she leaves her rings on the nightstand for this reason — and marvels at its feel. It is like heavy silk, much thicker and fuller than her own. Wasted on a soldier, in sooth, even a soldier-nohecharis. That said, a decisive tug upon it at the right angle elicits delicious whimpers from Lieutenant Beshelar, even if they are not as loud as the ones she can obtain from him by digging her fingernails into the flesh of his ears.

Never could she imagine scoring Maia’s slate-hued skin with her nails. Not with that ugly memento of his years with Setheris Nelar upon his left forearm. Nor would she ever wind his thick black curls about her fingers and pull. There was a time she would never have considered doing such things to anyone, though of course even then she knew such things were done: court gossip is as obsessively, one might say gleefully, detailed as the red-backed novels that make their discreet rounds amongst courtiers and servants alike.

That was before a certain abortive early-morning sparring match, the last of far too many matches unbearably freighted by mutually unacknowledged carnal tension. Csethiro truncated it by, after looking about to ensure they two were alone, dragging a flushed and sweating Lieutenant Beshelar behind a shed and pressing him bodily up against its rear wall. It was probably not the meet thing to do, but patience has never been one of her strong points, nor has subtlety. He offered little resistance to either the dragging or the pressing, presumably due to surprise as well as reluctance to countermand his empress. He did express his outrage in both countenance and voice, and then manage to extricate himself from her hands without inflicting the slightest bit of pain or even much pressure upon her. No small piece of finesse, that. Almost as intriguing as the considerable protrusion she had felt within the lieutenant’s hose.

If Csethiro is soothful with herself, she cannot complain with any justification that her husband is inadequate in their own bedchamber. He has always been attentive to her pleasure and eager to learn new ways of being so. Occasionally she has let herself savor the irony that, perhaps, the ambitious and far-too-pretty Mer Aisava has, in this wise, done her an indirect favor.

But there is no spark there, between her and Maia. She wondered at first if it were her fault. Were she as pretty as Min Vechin — and as acquiescent — would her marriage bed be a passionate one, not merely a dutiful one? She once tried to beg Maia’s forgiveness for it, which served for naught but to make him bring down reproach upon his own head. She should have guessed he would, she thought afterward; it is his way, and as utterly comprehensible as it is frustrating.

Two years, one michen, and several very private conversations with Arbelan Zhasanai later, Csethiro has nearly solidified her grasp on the fact that, sometimes, no one is at fault. It is often harder to accept this than to point a finger, even at oneself.

Patience and subtlety may elude her, but daring certainly does not. Thus, a few days after Lieutenant Beshelar had rebuffed her, she broached the subject of permission with Maia. They were lying in bed together, speaking too softly for Kiru Athmaza or Lieutenant Telimezh to hear them from the other side of the bed-curtains.

Maia’s body stiffened against hers. Csethiro bit back the apology that leapt to her tongue, waited him out. Finally he said, “I do not see that I have any moral argument against this that would not make a hypocrite of me.” When she started to exhale, he added, “There are, of course, the logistical arguments.”

“I will be the picture of discretion,” Csethiro said firmly.

“Thou must be,” Maia said, entwining his hand in hers. She did not reply to this: she had just, she knew, proposed what legally amounts to treason. “But,” he continued, “how wilt ensure if need be that wilt not conceive of it?”

“It might surprise thee to hear that this is far less difficult than might’st think.”

The trick is to halve a Barizheise citrus and set the flesh of one half against the mouth of one’s womb. Nadeian Vizhenka and her edocharo have made very sure that much of Untheileneise Court knows of its popularity and efficacy at the Corat’ dav Arhos. Once matters were settled with Maia, all that was left was for him — poor dear — to have a quiet word with Kiru Athmaza, whose gentle touch, knowledge of anatomical matters, and utter lack of judgment suited her well to the placement of the citrus. And for Csethiro to buttonhole a wary Lieutenant Beshelar in the quiet hour before the beginning of his shift and inform him, “You may discreetly inquire of your colleague Kiru Athmaza as to His Serenity’s … openness to certain arrangements.”

There was one final, and entirely fair, stipulation to said openness: Maia does not wish to learn the identity of Csethiro’s lover. Ever. She surmised, rightly as it turned out, that this would put a fine cap upon Lieutenant Beshelar’s already formidable sense of discretion.

Now, she parts the fine white curtain of the lieutenant’s hair to study the vertical scars running parallel to his spine. When she traces them with a nail-tip, applying judicious pressure, he shudders and moans into her cleft. She would wager a pair of gold earrings that he did not earn those scars in anything approaching combat. Not that she has first-hand knowledge to bring to bear in this regard, although perhaps she should remedy that. The discovery that the First Nohecharis welcomes and is excited by pain was accompanied by the discovery that she rather likes inflicting it.

He is, she must say, not entirely passive with her: he makes her wait, as always, for his tongue upon her bead, and he holds her firmly such that she cannot obtain that contact by squirming. Once he has chosen to grant it to her, he cares not at all that she grinds herself against his face. His lashes are pale against his pink-flushed cheeks, and when he draws back to gulp air, his cheekbones and lips shine with her wetness. The heat that has been building in Csethiro’s belly and loins surges wildly, and she hauls him back to her by the hair and ears and ruts against his ceaselessly working mouth until, with the back of her other hand pressed to her own mouth to stifle her shout, she peaks.

Lieutenant Beshelar rises slowly from his knees. Csethiro has let herself fall back upon the bed, and even with her eyes half-closed she can feel his own running avidly over her heaving breasts and belly, her stickied inner thighs. Deliberately blinking until the fog of ecstasy abates, she pushes herself up by the elbows and plants her heels further apart on the silk counterpane. Then she meets his gaze, inviting him, daring him.

The first time they were together and she did so, he stared down at her cleft and blurted a hapless “I —”, making Csethiro bite her lip. But he recovered quickly. “We cannot, Zhasan.”

“Of course you can,” she said, her eyes pointedly darting from his face to the bulge in his hose, then back again. “We have …taken measures.”

Tonight, he does not hesitate but pushes his hose down with a soldier’s swift efficiency. The organ that springs forth is no sunblade but a full, stalwart broadsword. Csethiro leans forward to take it in her hand and run her fist from root to tip, feeling quite smug at how it leaks against her palm and how Lieutenant Beshelar’s thighs tremble. “Flat on your back,” she commands, and his pupils blossom even more darkly as he scrambles to obey.

He watches her worshipfully as she mounts him. Csethiro has always thought that her long acquaintance with Csoru Zhasanai has left her with a strong distaste for overly dramatic gestures, but it is with a certain measure of glee that she makes a show of slotting the velvety ruby head up against her intimate opening with both hands, then slowly, ever so slowly, easing herself down upon the rigid shaft until her buttocks rest upon the creases where his thighs join his trunk. Fingertips splayed upon the counterpane for balance, Csethiro rolls her hips in a full circle. Lieutenant Beshelar fills her so completely that his twitch is entirely obvious, and it delights her.

Her movements, she knows, make her breasts bounce and sway. They are heavier than once they were, even though Chenela has been taking sustenance from a nursemaid for months now, their nipples much broader and darkened from maiden-pink to the crimson of a rose’s heart. Lieutenant Beshelar is breathing heavily, his fingers digging into the silk. “You wish to hold them, do you not?” Csethiro asks, almost mildly, twisting her hips again as she contracts her inner muscles around him. “To squeeze them.”

“…yes, Zhasan,” he whispers as sweat beads on his brow.

She grinds down harder upon him. “We do not feel so generous as to grant you that permission this evening. However, you may seek them with your mouth to the best of your ability.” With this, she leans forward, now supporting herself on her palms, letting her breasts buffet the lieutenant’s face.

The way he opens and closes his mouth at them is comical, reminiscent of a carp in a garden pond. But he manages to capture one and then the other stiff nipple between his lips more than once each, and to lavish kisses onto the sensitive undersides of her breasts. She permits herself a thrumming moan, especially at that moment when she has pressed her bead into his pubic bone at just the right angle with just the right amount of pressure and Lieutenant Beshelar is artfully scraping the edges of his teeth over her left nipple.

Her second climax is not as explosive as her first, but it is deeply, delightfully jarring, shaking out every remaining ounce of pleasure in her. She has not caught her breath nor opened her eyes again before Lieutenant Beshelar seizes her hips — well, she did not forbid it of him, once she had attained full satisfaction — and slams upward into her, again and again, until he groans in an absolutely filthy manner and then goes limp beneath her. As he lies dazed, Csethiro tweaks his own hard nipples and squeezes his shrinking member with her intimate muscles again, savoring his final gasp and whine, before dismounting in one smooth motion and landing lightly on the carpet.

“Zhasan,” he says hoarsely as she pulls a plain handkerchief from the nightstand drawer and blots at herself with it. He sounds partly overwhelmed, partly offended that she did not let him tend to her so.

“Lieutenant,” she acknowledges him, coolness and distance returning to her voice. She neatly folds the handkerchief that he may use the clean side for himself, which he does while she dresses again. She has had at least one edocharo since childhood and now has her own small team of them. But she has always dressed herself for sparring — she cares not how fetching she looks when she is pointing a sunblade at another’s guts — and her fingers are nimble and efficient upon her buttons and laces and rings.

He sits up, still naked, then rises. He gently lobs the soiled handkerchief into the hearth, and then he bows to her, the muscles in his shoulders and the wide plain of his upper back rippling magnificently. His organ is only marginally smaller when it is soft, and as he straightens it swings back and forth a bit. It is, in sooth, a rather silly-looking thing just now. Csethiro finds this endearing. For a fleeting moment she regrets that they have not the sort of relationship in which she could tease him about it. She dismisses the fancy by issuing the lieutenant his new orders: “You shall attend upon us again, a few days hence.”

“Zhasan,” Lieutenant Beshelar says one more time, voice soaked with a humbled satiation. “We serve you obediently in all matters.”


End file.
